


i mean you no harm (trust is for fools)

by WindyRein



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier? - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Tragedy, Darkiplier-centric, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Other Egos, Minor Violence, Post-Who Killed Markiplier?, Rage, Self-Hatred, Threats of Violence, Who Killed Markiplier?, maybe a little comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 04:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12403578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindyRein/pseuds/WindyRein
Summary: Wilford always treats him like he's not a monster of rage held together by the need for vengeance and that's the only good thing in his existence.





	i mean you no harm (trust is for fools)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antisepticdork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antisepticdork/gifts).



> Wii!!! A new fandom and pairing \o/ *hides under her bed* So, in the beginning of summer I stumbled and fell straight into the Markiplier fandom (fic, art, tumblr basically) and then Who Killed Markiplier? happened and drowned me in unsolicited feels and I had to write _something_.
> 
> This is basically a bunch of headcanons held together by an abundance of feels that was born from buckykinz's need for more Darkstache, so you know *waves hands around* I've no idea xD Oh, also, this went in a completely different direction than I was expecting.
> 
> Title from Bitter Ruin's [Trust](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MUhukCO7li8).

The hit stung more than he'd expected but it didn't really register. Not now that he... _they_ were filled with rage _(and grief)_. The sound of cracking bone echoes in the empty house. Something like disgust, something like revulsion and hatred runs down their spine at the following crunch. The other doesn't even seem to register the movement.

The body remembers their _friend_ trying to reach for them, remembers "it was an accident", remembers an echo of "I swear". The body that's not theirs _(his)_. The body that he _(they)_ stole to get their vengeance. (but she's already fading and soon... soon it will be just him and his rage and a man he called a friend)

But when they... _he_ stares into tear-filled, manic, _broken_ eyes, hears a shaking voice ask "Damien?". He... just can't. He can't inflict all the violence he wants to unleash upon this man, their _friend_. No matter what he's done. Celine was right after all. He's a good man but something happened at some point. Maybe it was the war, maybe he'd actually been sucked into a board game, it seems far more possible now than it had before, maybe it was something the Colonel had never even mentioned. Whatever it had been it had broken the Colonel, made him truly dangerous.

He thinks, "this man isn't guilty, he isn't at fault, not really". He wonders, "can you hold a madman responsible for his actions?" He decides, "it doesn't matter, he's not at fault."

Instead of another hit to the Colonel's jaw, he buries his fist in the nearest wall. He doesn't realize he'd let out the roar of anger that'd been bubbling in his chest since he'd lost his body until it echoes back to him.

He takes some deep breaths and carefully pulls his hand out. The skin is scratched and he has to pop a few knuckles back in place but nothing seems broken.

(and what could be broken when everything is already broken)

(he doesn't even bleed, not really)

***

He opens his eyes to the darkness just before dawn and wonders, why after all these years he dreamt of that night, those awful days.

There's a mumble of nonsense next to him and then movement and an arm around him like a band of iron and pink hair tickling his shoulder. He's surprised it's taken William this long to cuddle up to him.

He wants to move, wants to unleash some of the frenetic energy in him into destruction. He wants to rage and tear apart the man who caused _this_ to them. Even if the current happy-go-lucky idiot they're tied to is just a reincarnation, just a copy that pales in comparison to the original. He wants to skip a few dimensions over and destroy the abominations he'd find there just so he could kill _something_.

But he won't. He won't leave William _(no, no, no, it's not william, not anymore)_ to wake alone and think he'd dreamt him coming back, dreamt all these decades. He's done it before and he'll never do it again if he can help it.

***

The others stay away from him when he finally emerges from their bedroom. He's not sure if he likes it or not. On the one hand, at least they're not irritating him to homicide. On the other, they would be such a good distraction and outlet for the seething, writhing thing inside him.

Will's the only one who treats him same as ever. He always does. Always treats him like he's still the same man he'd befriended all those long, _long_ decades ago and not a monster made of rage and grief, held together by the need for vengeance and protecting the one thing he still cares about.

He wants to goad him to a fight, wants to twist and hurt like he's hurting and yet, at the same time, he doesn't.

He leaves. It's best for everyone.

***

In the void there are beings humans could never imagine. Tentacles and eyes and edges, teeth and slime and never-ending hunger, nothingness and madness and falling until you stop existing.

He tears them apart one after the other after the other. He doesn't stop until they're actively fleeing from him and even that's just because he can't be bothered to expend the energy to hunt them down.

***

Wilford had known from the moment he woke up that something had happened. Dark was on edge in a way he hadn't been since they'd met the current reincarnation for the first time. Wil doesn't remember the last time Dark had let his aura go like that. It had made everyone, even Host and Google, shy away from him.

He tried to work as a distraction but really he had all these ideas and Bim's show really wouldn't get anywhere with that concept and the Jims needed help setting up and when he resurfaced from the studio, Dark was gone and no-one knew where he'd went.

***

He felt so much better. Almost relaxed. He could almost imagine Celine was still alive and his old friend wasn't stuck in a mirror in a damned, cursed, god- _forsaken_ house.

So, of course, it couldn't last.

"Dark! Hey, wait up!" It's the voice that really gets him. (he cracks his neck. still broken, always _broken_ ) He doesn't really care about the face or the body. They might be similar but then again, him and William and _that man_ had often been mistaken for brothers and he's never seen a reason to hate their looks.

But the voice... Oh, the voice grates on every last _one_ of his nerves. It's a reminder of how a once dear friend had sounded and then changed except for the voice. It had always been the same. Always deep and soft and cheerful. Always like an anchor to the past and he'd thought, _maybe_ , if he got the Colonel and Mark in the same room, then maybe... But it doesn't matter anymore.

He knows he's been silent too long, can hear footsteps getting closer, feel his broken body tensing, power humming around him ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. Something in him hums in anticipation and glee at the unsuspecting prey nearing them.

He turns (there's a flash of pink and yellow somewhere behind the imposter but he can't focus on that) and _sees_ and he can feel his shell cracking with the howling rage he's been holding back for so long and now, now's the time.

He sneers and takes a step forward, his cane materializing in his hand already mid-swing. He can almost feel the bone cracking under the force of it. He knows it'll feel so delicious to finally inflict some of the pain he's been put through.

Except it doesn't connect. There's a hand around his wrist like a manacle and his prey is frozen in front of him, eyes wide and... is he trembling?

This time the voice is welcome. The sudden whip of "You don't want to do this, Damien." low and steely, only for his ears, reminiscent of days best left forgotten.

He can't stop the snarl when that same voice addresses his prey and tells him to go.

There's a whirl of pink and his hand finds its way around a throat.

He takes deep breaths for a long while. (his hand squeezing and relaxing with the rhythm)

When the rage finally subsides, he realizes he's pinning William to a bed, their bed. His hand stays where it is.

"Why?", he finally manages to grit out.

(he hates the look in william's eyes, hates the sorrow and the grief, hates he can't do anything about it)

"Because, Dark, my Damien, you don't really want to kill him. You want answers and for him to suffer like we did, like Celine and your friend did."

(he flinches at the way the colonel's _(no, no, no! **wilford's** )_ jaw moves to the side at times. burns with the guilt of causing it.)

He's tense for a long moment, frozen in place to stop the storm, the _monster_ living under his skin. Something softens in Wil's eyes, normally so filled with manic energy and joy that hides all the pain in the man's past.

And something in him snaps. There's a howl, a woman's high-pitched scream, a ringing in his ears like a gunshot, he screams in too many voices, "It's not fucking fair!"

Everything blows away from him _(them)_ , furniture crashing against the walls, the whole room shrouded in black, the walls trembling between reality and void.

Wil just blinks at him a couple of times before throwing his head back with his usual boisterous laughter. "Of course, it's not." and the mania was seeping back, "but what can you really do about it, Darkiepoo?"

His hand squeezes and for a moment, a split second he'll never admit to, he thinks of squeezing and squeezing and _squeezing_ until the life left those manic eyes.

In the end, he ends up hitting the mattress beside Wil's head with a wordless shout. Wil doesn't react in any way _(honestly, he hadn't really expected him to)_.

The grief, the pain, the guilt, all of it suddenly slams into him drowning out the rage like he hadn't thought possible. Wil lets out a soft sound and pulls him closer, wraps his arms around him, one hand even starts carding through his hair.

They stay there for the rest of the day. No-one dares disturb them and, thanks to Google, nothing even burns down.

(and if wil's shoulder and neck are tear-stained from dark hiding there, it's not like either of them will ever mention it)

**Author's Note:**

> Missed tags are appreciated and reviews are loved. :)
> 
> I feel like Warfstache is far too mentally stable in this but what can you do, when the characters talk in a certain voice, they talk in a certain voice *shrugs* and no, that's not me fucking up/changing my mind about the spelling on the abbreviation of Wilford's name.
> 
> Also, if you have questions (about this or anything else), I'll do my best to answer all of them. :)
> 
> (and i'm randomly and sporadically on [tumblr](http://poutingtrolltroll.tumblr.com/))


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